Flute of War
by StarsOfYaoi
Summary: *Prussia-centric* Playing his flute, Prussia remembers -he's going to war, but his mind will always be with his dear old King.


**SOY:** this is a request fic as well. Prussia playing his violin to remember his dear Old Fritz…

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**Rating**: K+

**Warnings:** angst, war.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Hetalia.

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**Flute of War**

**One–shot**

There are bombs echoing in the distance –outside the window, the city is being attacked. Prussia stands immobile in his sitting room, eyes close, and thinks.

He's dressed impeccably with heavy, worn clothes, and he's almost ready to go.

In a few hours, his troops will part from this city –one city, just one, there is nothing much going on about it to make Prussia feel so bad, yet he doesn't really want to go; this has been his house for long, it's almost sad to leave.

His thoughts are confused, jumbled, unsure what to think, what to believe, what to feel, yet his exterior is calm, void of that exuberance he's shown so many times before. It is a sober appearance, but he feels like this house deserves it.

War.

It's different. This is different –the feeling of adrenaline rushing through his body is not welcome anymore; the sound of grenades and bombs and guns rattling outside makes his stomach churn, makes his brain stop, scrambling for something familiar.

Once he would have yelled in happiness, the rush of exhilaration he felt before, the times he fought to conquer, the desire to be better than everyone else…

This is not it anymore.

It is war, but it's not _his_ war.

His war was made of swords. His war was made by men dying during valiant combat, charging and attacking and yelling, where skills made up for the ruthless charges, where the blood covering the soil was spilled with a blade or a bayonet and with eyes open in determination–

A bomb falls somewhere close; Prussia turns around, without opening his eyes, and feels the rattling of the window glasses under his open fingers.

Pictures a wall crumbling down, men yelling.

Unbidden, more images flash through his mind –explosions, hatred. Too many deaths without care.

This is a different war. Made of destructive attacks that wipe away lives without care, made of shooting guns and rifles and dynamite, where you just have to aim at the enemy, and someone will cease to exist.

This war speaks of pain, of useless attacks, of the stench of blood and bubbling gangrene on bodies, of young soldiers, so young, crying for their mothers that wait for them at home –a long, infinite wait that will bear no end.

Prussia walks away from the window, and moves deeper in the house –it has been his house for a while, now, his little place when he's not together with his boss, a small solace even with the war raging outside.

It is all going to end.

Eyes still close, he graces the walls, the furniture, the paintings on the wall with his hands, rough by handling a sword for more than a century, fingertips barely brushing on each thing, recognising its texture, recognising the soft scent of dried paint, dried lacquer…

He will be saying goodbye to this house in a few hours, and then he'll be out again, with his troops, and he'll go to Russia.

The lands are so cold, he's been told –there is nothing there but poverty and red, but Prussia likes that colour –it's what his eyes reflect, so much that he feels he's always seen nothing but that.

There are enemies to defeat –he will succeed. He's always succeeded, but lately there is no satisfaction in winning, when so much of it brings no solace… when so much of it brings no sun to shine above his head anymore.

It is war.

He'll see Italy there –the younger one will be sent to Russia as well. Prussia secretly hopes to see him soon, if only to be warmed by his bright attitude. The Italian is not skilled at war, but Prussia will enjoy his presence. They will fight on the same side, and it won't be a novelty for either of them.

They come from the same past. It will be nice.

Maybe his smiles will make Prussia feel that even this war is ok. Or maybe they will talk and agree that the past was better.

There will be Hungary as well –it has been so long since Prussia has seen her, and that will bring warmth too… not the same as Italy, of course, but a different kind of warmth anyway… she's known him since he was a kid, since he was not Prussia but an Order of Knights.

She will smirk at him and then insult him, but secretly she will want nothing more than fighting, and they'll be back to back once more.

He will be able to fake that it's not a modern war. He will be able to pretend he's still in 1700, fighting for his King's power, on a horse, with his sword.

His king.

Oh, Frederick.

Prussia's footsteps falter –hands bump against a huge, old frame.

He knows he's frowning, but memories drown him away for a moment, and he can't but stand and _feel_–

Old Fritz, as he used to call him. it's absurd how much time has passed since his death, and Prussia sometimes finds himself turning around, ready to call his name, demand his attention, only to…

He's not there anymore.

He was a human, but he had Prussia's respect, and even now, Prussia feels he would give away his entire soul to be able to speak to him once more.

See his determined expression during difficult times –listen to his sarcastic comments, the way he'd teach his soldiers what to expect, the way he'd joke around…

"_What is the good of experience if you do not reflect"._

The bombs shook the walls, falling closer again now, and Prussia steers himself, resuming his pacing. He has to say his goodbyes quickly, before someone comes to call for him, and there is still something he wants to do.

Eyes still close, Prussia allows his feet to bring him further in his house, knowing every inch of the house like the back of his hand, every frame and ripple on the wall, every small bit of ruined wallpaper…

This is his house, and he will have to say goodbye, spinning away in battle again.

His heart thumps wildly in his chest as he reaches his music room.

He can see it in his mind's eye –large, bright, with creamy wallpapers covered with old, faded stylised flowers, a huge window that shows him the beautiful sight of the city… he can't hear any bombing now, because his mind has blocked the sounds away.

He concentrates further. He needs to be able to remember everything, because he knows that one way or the other, he will never be back.

There's a huge cupboard in a corner, and he steps towards it, eyes close to preserve the illusion of stillness and silence.

His pace does not falter, sense of assuredness vibrating around his frame, and Prussia smirks.

Hands curl around the knob, pulling the doors open, and he pictures his flute exactly where he's left it before.

He can almost see it behind his closed eyelids, sparkling with the light coming from the outside, on red velvet, ready to be held up and used.

All memories reside inside it, for it was given to him on his deathbed, the one and only thing Prussia allows to exist in such a raw, powerful form. He will never let go of that time, even if it falls from his fingers away the more he steps forwards.

Frederick once said that every religion counts, since all men have to reach Heaven on their own pace. Prussia believes this –his time on this Earth has not yet ended, and until then, he will fight for the right to meet his old Fritz once his time has come.

Until then, Prussia will never look back.

His hands wrap around the flute, and he lifts it up, reverently, rubbing at its sides, familiar and enticing.

The metal is cold under his fingers, cold and empty of music, but it won't take long before he can fill it again. Flashes of other hands pressed down on it flicker through his conscience, fleeting butterflies brushing their wings of memory against him, and Prussia feels a small smile grace his lips.

Oh, Frederick.

He longs to listen the man playing for him again, like he did, like he always did, every week for years and decades –ever since Prussia kneeled in front of him, surprised at his own antics, when he finally realised that there was a human that deserved his respect.

Fingers touching that same flute, dancing on its length, playing melodies that Prussia memorized by heart, and then played for his King, his friend, his commander –the man that was the greatest he's ever had.

Playing them when he turned so old he could barely walk, and yet still retaining all his pride, Prussia never leaving his side until the end. There are humans that dedicate their whole life for one goal, and his Old Fritz had devoted his life to his nation. Fewer people deserve a Nation's respect, and only one ever had the respect of Prussia.

"_My dear Prussia"_ words reach his ears like the whiff and rustle of wind, coming forth from a past he's never forgotten _"Talent goes by nature, not by birth"_.

They had been talking about nothing and everything, just after Prussia had commented on his talents for music, war and languages. Frederick had shook his head, denying born talent, denying the praise.

Prussia had laughed, his smirk almost feral as he sat down in front of him, hands demanding that flute. _"What does that mean, old man! I'm just perfect and have been since birth!"_

A smile –a smile that tasted of warmth and condescend, as if Frederick had been the oldest one, and not Prussia… _"This is because you are Prussia –this is because you are our prided land. But alas, we humans only can excel in that we love, and unless you love what you are, you will never succeed"_.

"_That means you'll be a great King, because you love the great me"_ and Prussia had laughed, bringing the flute to his lips.

Frederick had just smiled, filling Prussia's heart with joy.

The cold metal brings a light tremor to Prussia as he presses the mouthpiece to his lips. Too much time has passed since his last offering, but he knows he has nothing to fear –he will never forget those melodies, as long as he's alive, as long as he exists.

"_Play for me, Prussia. This old king very much enjoys the notion that his Nation is willing to play and remember him…"_

Until his last days, Prussia had played for him.

"_I will never forget you, as long as I live –and I'm a nation. I will never die. You will always be remembered"._

The music fills the flute, pouring out from its frame, fills the room, his brain, his heart.

Notes that are slow and fast, bright and grave, a tune that he's loved and played since the very start. Fingers press and lift, smooth, gracious, and crimson eyes are still clenched shut, allowing his mind to roll away with the music.

There is no place for silence now –he's playing, and he's playing for his lost King. Centuries disappear with every note, and behind closed eyes, Prussia can see him again.

He can see that giant hall, where Frederick stood in pride, strong and powerful, ready to fight alongside with his soldiers in a war he would win.

He can see his adored Fritz looking at him, victorious and satisfied.

Loneliness disappears –dark thoughts, shadows, deaths and massacres vanish in that music Prussia loves so much.

He's playing.

Frederick hums in pleasure.

He's smiling, sitting on that huge throne Prussia had given him, and his fingers tap on his lap, following the tune he's composed, amused and content in listening his Nation playing for him. Notes echo in the room, bigger and larger than those of Prussia's music room, bounce everywhere, grave and soft, and Prussia takes a deep breath.

The notes grow in intensity

Severe eyes, staring at him, as if looking deep into his soul–

Meeting again, even if it's not real.

'_Will you accompany me during this war?'_

Wrinkles covering his face, but still able to smile at him, despite his age, despite his position, despite…

'_Will you look down at me and pray? Prussia has to win. I'm not fighting for me anymore… I'm fighting for him, I'm fighting for them–'_

Notes curling around them, the rest of the world matters nothing anymore–

There's war knocking at his door. Prussia will answer and fight, as he did back then. He won't fight for his own grandeur, but for that of his younger brother. For that of his allies. He will fight because there will be no end until one of the two sides wins, and even if Prussia has seen so much, even if he feels this war will bring nothing but destruction, he will fight.

He's going to leave for Russia, and he won't bring the flute with him.

There will be no time to play, no time to fool around. It's war.

He'll be leaving Frederick's flute behind, but he wants his spirit to follow.

'_Be at my side –and I'll never lose'._

A vibration through his body –the bombs are still falling, but Prussia's soul has strengthened.

The great Germanic Empire is still alive in his blood, and until the end, he will fight.


End file.
